Distortion
by wp1fan
Summary: "Briefly, he wonders why he isn't blindfolded. The bastard wants Castle to see this-what he's planning to do to her." AU. Between "Undead Again" and "Always" Chapter 4 now up.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Warning: This is not my normal style. I saw this prompt on the kink meme at LJ: ** _"Rick and Kate (not in a relationship never had sex with each other before ) get kidnapped and forced into a underground BDSM ring where they are forced to to continually have sex (with each other ) different positions different fetishes depending on what the client wants."_** and it intrigued me. I changed it SO much that I almost didn't mention the prompt, but it was my inspiration for kidnapping and creepy, so I give it the credit.**

**This is AU, set post "Undead Again"-"Always" was absolute perfection, but didn't happen in this fic.  
**

**Thanks to Jessie, my creepy inspiration and cheerleader of all things fic.  
**

**00000000000000000000  
**

"Let her go, you son of a bitch," he seethes through clenched teeth, tugging at his restrained hands.

"My my, Mr. Castle," the man taunts as he pulls out a pocket knife and cuts the scarf holding Kate's feet together. Her knees fall apart limply. She's not moving, but he can see the steady rise and fall of her chest, which gives him an iota of relief. He can still feel something—some drug—clouding his system. "You sure are…passionate about Miss Beckett, here." Kate is sitting directly in front of him, in a rickety wooden chair, her position mirroring his, with her wrists tied behind her back. He wonders if the tight knot of rope is cutting into her flesh the way it is his. She's blindfolded, but her head is lolled off to the side and he can see a sliver of her eyelid where the material has slackened.

Briefly, he wonders why he _isn't _blindfolded. But, when the masked man runs his fingers up Kate's thighs, up the front of her blouse as he stands, Castle knows. He slides lanky fingers around her face, cups her chin to tilt her head up as he leans his own into her. The bastard wants Castle to see this—what he's planning to do to her.

No.

No.

"Please," he begs, trying a new tactic. "Please let her go."

"Will you help me arouse her?" He presses his lips to Kate's sleep-slackened jaw, a series of pecks before he lets his tongue run up her cheek. "From her slumber," he adds, whites of his teeth showing through the upturn of his lips.

"I—I won't." The man watches in amusement as Castle jerks again in his chair, the wooden legs jump and scrape on the concrete floor until he collapses back in exhaustion, nothing accomplished. He thunders out a loud roar of frustration and helplessness, feels the tears prick at his eyes.

He looks around the dimly lit room; his sight still hasn't adjusted to the darkness. A single light bulb is dangling from the ceiling (a fire hazard, to be sure). The high windows and dank dampness lead him to believe they're in a basement of some sort. The windows are painted black, but small cracks in the coat are letting miniscule slivers of light in, letting him know it's daytime.

They've been here several hours, then.

He and Beckett were on their way back to the precinct after grabbing a bite to eat late last night. She still had mounds of paperwork to complete, and he wasn't ready to let her go yet. Her wall was coming down (she said so herself), and by God's will he was going to be there if (_when_, the more optimistic part of his brain reminded) she decided that she wanted more. So, he offered to help her with the paperwork in exchange for her accompanying him to dinner. She acquiesced with a wide smile and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as they walked to a diner a few blocks away. She was warm and willing and smelled so damn good, and he wondered if he gave her wall a good kick, if it might finish crumbling tonight.

It was when they were strolling back towards the precinct things start to get fuzzy. Neither one of them felt great; it came upon them suddenly. They attributed it to the oppressive heat, even with the sun hibernating in the night's sky. Kate was nauseated—dizzy with it—and Castle had a blinding headache; surprisingly, Kate was the one who suggested that they forgo the paperwork, saying that she could finish it on her own in the morning. Even as she protested, Castle insisted on at least walking her home. He remembers, as they turned a corner, seeing a non-descript black van (how cliché) pull to the curb, parking illegally.

Then hands hands, lots of hands—or maybe it was merely one set, he doesn't know, can't be sure. But they felt like they were everywhere, grabbing, pushing, pulling, injecting. Kate was screaming his name futilely. And he was reaching for her, but only coming back with fists full of air; she sounded so close, but his blurred vision couldn't spot her.

He couldn't save her.

And then there was white noise, the static blocking out everything.

Then nothing.

Silence.

That's what he woke to a few minutes ago. An alarming quiet, save for his own shallow breathing.

It's the same quiet that's haunting the room now.

"Don't tell me you don't want her." The man again shows his pearled handled pocket knife, fingers it as if in admiration, then quickly exposes the blade and flattens it to her forehead—Castle can see the tender flesh indenting with the pressure—then he spins it quickly so the sharp edge folds back in on itself. With a menacing laugh, he slips it back into his pocket, steps closer to Castle. "I see the way you look at her. Like you want to climb on top of her and fu-"

"Stop it," he breaths out, closes his eyes.

"Do you know that I watch you watch her?"

So, he's not a stranger, not really; this isn't a random act. Castle doesn't know whether to be comforted or demoralized at that knowledge. What he does know is that this man isn't stable and Kate isn't safe here.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, now _that's _no fun!" The man laughs again, the hole in his mask stretching with the widening of his lips. "Call me Warden."

"Warden?" Castle rifles through his memories, tries to find some familiarity in that name. He's got nothing. And he can't get a distinct visual interpretation. The man isn't tall, but he's stocky, with no distinctive birthmarks or tattoos that he can see through dark denim pants and long-sleeved shirt. He's wearing a ski mask, black non-descript except for the strip of neon orange lining the eye and mouth holes.

The voice seems mildly familiar; enough to gnaw at his brain, but that could be him angling for something, _anything_ to grasp onto. In reality, he has nothing. Nothing to win him an upper hand.

Nothing to protect her.

"Warden," he again tests the name on his tongue, tries for a calm, even tone. "What do you really want? Money? How much?" He offers, no restrictions. It wouldn't matter what amount was thrown at him; he'd unearth it, even if it went beyond his own resources. He'll find a way. "I can have it to you before the day's up. Easy."

"I don't want your money, Mr. Castle. I want you to tell me a story. _Show_ me a story."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Spoilers for Heat Wave. **

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**00000000000000000000**

Kate groans, stirs to life. Castle straightens in his chair and watches her. He can see her eyebrows quaking above her blindfold, her body twitching as it's hindered by limited movement. He watches as each arm tugs ineffectually, her shoulders pulling up with the strain. He can tell the moment she remembers what has happened and is at least thankful that he doesn't have to try to explain.

She's rocking in the seat, panic flooding her jerky features. She kicks her bare feet against the wooden legs, and she's going to end up hurting herself if she doesn't stop.

"Kate," he leans forward, grunts against the painful pull on his restraints, because he needs to calm her down. He whispers _shh _and _it's okay_ over and over again until she settles, still gulping air.

Warden is laughing from behind her as he tugs on her hair, causing her head to thrash back into his chest. He cuts away her blindfold and stands stock still menacingly behind her.

Her eyes jolt open, wide and shifty, with fear lingering in them.

"Castle?" In just his name, he hears all of her questions that he can't answer.

"I don't know," he breathes.

"What, you're not even going to formally introduce us, Mr. Castle? How very inconsiderate." He holds his hand out for her to shake and she stares at it. "Oh, I forgot, you're a little tied up. You can call me Warden."

"What do you want from us?"

"Well, I know the two of you have been having problems," he says nonchalantly as he paces the room. "Of the relationship nature," he adds, looking at Castle. "Oh wait. I forgot. You're '_honored to be able to follow the NYPD in their quest for justice'_. And '_glad that Detective Beckett is still putting up with me after four years'. _But, no, you '_are not in a relationship'_," Warden air-quotes, giving an unsettling word-for-word account of his awkward interview with the_ Post_ last month. "Therein lies the problem, don't you think?"

"I'm not sure how that's your business," Kate snaps.

"Well, I've always been a little nosey. When I was a kid, I liked to take things apart, see how they worked, then put them back together. Sometimes successfully, sometimes not so much," he winces, lips curling and eyes squinting through the holes in his mask. "I'm just doing it on a larger scale now." He gestures to them, waves around the room. "Humans are a lot more complicated. You're my guinea pigs. I knew you wouldn't mind," he sing-songs.

Castle growls. He can feel blood trickling into his cupped fingers where the rope is rubbing his flesh raw. "If you're asking…we mind."

"Well, then you'll have to get the fuck over it," he spits, vexation lacing his words.

Castle startles at the way this man goes from calm to crazed in an instant.

"Guinea pigs? I still don't understand." Kate looks fearful and pissed and confused, and Castle wants her to be quiet, stop the questioning. Warden has given him enough vague clues for Castle to know that he's got something twisted planned for them. He doesn't want Kate worrying about it, but he realizes now how powerless he is to that, how mute his wish to protect her really is. He's joked about the abundance of times he's saved her life, but is now defenseless to this man's whims. It makes him want to cry.

"Well, to put it simply, we're going to do a little roleplaying. Don't worry about not knowing your lines—they're characters you're familiar with."

Castle purses his lips and closes his eyes, can't look at her now. She'll see his anxiety.

"Now, Mr. Castle here has indicated that he's not interested in participating. That would surely be a shame, but there's an understudy poised to take his place. Warden looks around the room, spins in a circle, then points to his own chest, opens his mouth in mock-surprise. "Moi? Oh, I'd be so honored."

Castle lifts his lids and almost closes them again. Kate's eyes are boring into his, pleading.

"Mr. Castle, Miss Beckett, I need to grab a few things. I'll be just a moment. Please have your final decision made before I return. Until then, I bit you adieu." He bows theatrically, his lips meeting Kate's forehead, hands curling at her neck, before he rises again and exits the room.

"Castle—"

"Kate."

"I don't want him to touch me," she whispers. "Please."

She's begging him not to let another man hurt her, and it's haunting and vomit-inducing. He's the only one who can keep her safe for now, but only by agreeing to play a sick game with unknown results in return. "We'll figure something out. I promise. I won't let him touch you."

A key scraping in the lock draws their attention away from each other and back to the door Warden exited from. Kate huffs out a breath and blinks rapidly, staving off tears. He can see their glint at the seams of her eyes, crawling to the tips of her lashes. With a deep inhale and furious shake of her head, she has herself composed just in time for Warden to reappear through the door.

"We're so quiet in here." He sets a medium sized box and paper grocery sack down on the table and begins digging into the latter. "I take that to mean that a decision's been made. Fun for me or fun for you, Mr. Castle?"

"He'll do it," Kate blurts for him.

"Oh, goody." He slides his palms together in excitement. "As much as I'd love to have a luscious sampling of you for myself, I'm a true romantic at heart." He lifts two candles out of the bag as if to prove his statement. "I don't know why you're looking at me like that, Richard. I'm trying to help you out here," he stage whispers to him, nods his head in Kate's direction. "See if you can manage to not fuck it up this time, huh?"

He stacks a few assorted colors and sizes of candles on the corner of the table, then steps back between their chairs.

"I'm going to untie you now." He circles behind him, and Castle sees Kate's line of vision move up and over his shoulder; she's watching Warden with the same look he imagines he had earlier. She's trying to figure him out, whether she knows him, decipher his motivations. She's silently interrogating him, but he can tell she's getting nowhere when she slumps back into her chair, lowers her eyes back to his, smiles a truly unconvincing—but somehow still reassuring—smile.

"Oh, and just so you don't get any ideas," Warden pauses, takes a deep exaggerated breath that he releases as a whistle, then pats Castle roughly on the cheek. "If you try anything silly, I'll shoot her in the head."

Castle hasn't seen a gun, but he believes him, knows in this short amount of time that the man is sinister—or just plain crazy—enough to do that without remorse. As the bindings fall away from his wrists and he feels the fibers of rope peeling away from his pared flesh, he bites into his lip to keep the discomfort from showing on his face.

"Oh, I got a new toy," Warden calls out, randomly, backing away from Castle with a warning for him to stay put with an extended finger. "Wanna see?" Neither he nor Kate answer, but you couldn't tell from Warden's excitement while rooting around in the box.

For a slight moment, Castle thinks it's a gun, but as he fingers it, shows it off like a game show prize, Castle can see that it's a Taser, a stun gun.

Any momentary thoughts of relief Rick has are forgotten as he's struck with the probes, can feel the barbs piercing his skin. Every muscle in his body seizes, squeezes his bones. He can faintly hear Kate screaming for him or at Warden; he's can't be sure.

His lips are parted, but no sounds are coming out. He's researched this; even thought it might be cool to have it done like he's seen on TV and YouTube videos. He's amending that. His breath is getting lost somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. Standard police tasering is five seconds; he's not sure how long this has been, but oh my God, he's not going to be able to stand it much lo-.

And it's gone.

The pain (was it even pain?) has subsided, but his muscles are still twitchy and he can't quite control them. He finally has enough motor function to press his feet to the concrete floor and push himself back up into the chair that he had nearly slouched out of. He's breathing hard and his heart is racing—he can't seem so find a rhythm to either.

Warden strides up to him and Castle flinches, bracing himself for the next wave of immobilization. But his fingers are fishing around on his torso and then Castle feels it, the sharp twist of agony as Warden jerks the barbs from his flesh.

"Ha. It works! Neat." He spins to Kate, shows her the twin hooks of metal, ends tinged with his blood. "Same rules apply to you, Miss Beckett. Don't try anything stupid or he'll get it again. That was a _low_ setting," he warns. He slides the stun gun into a cargo pocket on his jeans at the same time that he slips out his knife and swiftly loosens Kate from her bondages.

"Why are you doing this?" Kate demands.

"Because I can. Now stand up." He's gesturing to both of them and their compliance is immediate.

His legs are still a little wobbly, but he doesn't have much problem with the movement. Kate is steadying him just in case, asking him if he's okay (_he can't respond to that without lying or scaring her_), her fingers sliding down his forearm, and—after she realizes that he's not in danger of collapsing—down to his hand.

"Over here," Warden offers, nudging Castle ahead with his knee, Beckett follows at his side. With his still knife-armed hand, he pulls back a thick black curtain, its rings chiming and scraping against the metal rod flanking a small alcove in the corner. It looks like maybe the area was built for a washer and dryer. It instead houses a small couch, patterned like old-fashioned curtains, a brown and green paisley print, faded at the arms and cushions. "Have a seat and we'll get started."

Castle and Beckett lower onto the cushions. Castle notices her eyeing their surroundings. She sucks in a small, startled breath and his eyes follow hers to the coffee table angled beside the couch. There lie four lime wedges, a shot glass, half-bottle of tequila, and a salt shaker.

"I'd like to start off authentic, but we're omitting the paring knife for now. But, I took the liberty of wedging your limes," he waves proudly towards the table. Kate shudders beside him, vibrating shoulder to thigh, where she's pressed against him. Warden grabs the candles and places them around the table. "Pretend they're lit," he instructs.

"What exactly are we doing?" He knows, oh he knows, but he wants to hear it.

"You're fixing what you broke. By starting back at square one."

"Square one?" Kate asks, angry lilt to her voice that makes him uncomfortable, want to cover her mouth with his and hide her, tuck her away somewhere safe.

"Back to where you began. When things were fresh and new."

"You're talking about characters in a book," Castle hisses.

"Based on you both." Warden nods, bobs his head enthusiastically. "Start, Rook." He points to the table, disappears into the shadow of the curtain, where while looking at Kate, Rick can't even see him in his peripheral vision. That gives him a dash of comfort.

Castle sighs and sticks the web of his hand in his mouth, salts it, then plucks it back between his lips. He skips the shot glass, just swigs from the bottle then bites into a lime wedge, wincing as the mixture of the three sharpen in his throat.

"Keep going," he hears, off to his right.

His fingers shake when he pours the shot, amber liquid sloshes over the sides of the glass. Kate must notice, and after he drops the bottle down, she grabs his wrist, steadies him and shakes her own salt onto his hand. It's too exhilarating and uncomfortable when her tongue scrapes his flesh. In a character reversal that betrays his book, he's the one who foregoes eye contact in this moment. By the time he opens his eyes, the shot is drained and another lime wedge has been consumed.

She's worried about him, that he can plainly see. They both have enough anxiety piled on in this situation that her trying to share _his_ burden is too much. He's being selfish. This isn't any easier on her, yet he's the one hiding from it, leaving her weighed down by the encumbrances.

When she offers him her hand, already shining with salt crystals, he finds her eyes, tries to let her know they're in this together. His lips wrap around the space between her thumb and forefinger; he lingers there until he sees the tequila lifted into his vision. She eases her hand from his mouth and he knocks back the alcohol, squeezes the juice of the lime onto his tongue and swallows hard.

He remembers writing this scene as if it were yesterday, not years ago. He felt guilty then, too, he recalls, because it was Kate Beckett he imagined in this, and subsequent scenarios…nothing fictional about her. And now _now_ he has it, a fantasy come to life.

But, it's tinged with nightmare.

"This is where you kiss," Warden announces, theatrically.

When Castle wrote about Nikki and Rook holding each other's steady gaze, he didn't picture them being surveyed and instructed. Once he meets Kate's eyes, he tries to tell her how sorry he is. If he weren't so selfish, wasn't craving some alone time with her, bribed her into going to dinner, this wouldn't have happened. It wouldn't be _happening_.

His eyes shutter in reflex when she touches two fingers to his jaw, leans up and in to brush her lips across his cheek. She pulls back a little, but stays there, swayed into him. His heart is hammering.

_Oh._

He wrote this. Just like this.

He wishes they were in a time or place where he could be flattered, make a joke at how well she knows this scene. But, when Warden clears his throat, he knows there's no time for that. It's his turn. Time for him to play the part.

He brushes her hair back, tucks it behind her ear and sighs. Her eyes closed, and he'd like to think it's from his touch; maybe under different circumstances he'd allow himself to believe that and relish in it. Going "off-script", he laces his fingers into her hair and tugs her towards him. He just wants to hold her for a moment.

But, before he can urge her head to his neck, her hands are flexing on his shoulders and her lips are on his. His groan echoes around them, hangs heavy in the air. She's sobbing into his mouth, and he can taste her tears, more brackish and harsh than the salt he licked from her skin. Instinctively, he slants his head and presses closer into her when her tongue curls past his lips. It's rough and desperate, and after staring at one another—tied to chairs—this is the only physical bond they have, the thread tying them together and it's too much and not enough.

"Gotta stop," he grumbles, still kissing her, not willing to let her go, but needing to.

"Don't leave me." She's begging and clinging to him, pulling him tightly to her, his shirt fisted in her palms.

"Shh, I'm not leaving you. I'll never leave you."

"Oh, don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Castle."

His eyes shock to Warden, who is glaring at him, suddenly angered. "Did you tell the blonde whore that you're screwing the same thing?"

Damn it.

Castle shakes his head. "I'm not—we're not. It wasn't like that." He's annoyed at himself for feeling the innate urge to explain this. He turns to Kate, stilled in his embrace. "There hasn't been anyone in a very long time," he whispers gently. Kate nods her head, smooths her hands down the front of his shirt before letting him go. She's still canted into him, though, away from Warden.

"She doesn't believe you," Warden taunts. "I wouldn't believe you either." Kate goes to speak, but Warden holds up his hand, stops her. "Hush. For my story, it doesn't even matter. Take him to your bedroom, Nikki."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Trust me?**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**00000000000000000000**

"_Take him to your bedroom, Nikki."_

She turns to Castle, is imploring with her eyes as she stands and tugs on his hand until he can stagger from the couch to his feet.

"Where?" She's asking Warden's retreating back, and Castle thinks about jumping the man, praying for the best outcome. If he wasn't frightened for Kate, he'd do just that. But, he's still shaky, and if he isn't successful, Kate will be the one to pay the price; he knows that the threat wasn't idle.

Warden turns and ushers with an outstretched arm and wide smile. Castle clutches Kate's hand to hold her still, keep her from rounding the coffee table.

"Do what he says," she whispers, fingering the red, angry gash inside his wrist. She's taming down the same instincts and fears as him; he can tell. She wants to fight, kicking and screaming, but is too fearful that this psychopath will harm him, make good on his warning, finish the job he started earlier. Maybe if they did it together, tried to take him down… "Whatever you're thinking, Castle, stop it. Just, don't," her voice dies off as she leads him to where Warden is standing with his arms crossed.

There's another long curtain partitioning off a different segment of the basement. It's crimson in color, heavy velvet drapery like those used in movie theaters years ago. It makes his skin crawl. They're the main attraction, the show for this sick pervert.

Warden pulls on the curtain, revealing their next stage. Castle scrapes a palm down his face and presses his thumb into his eye socket, pushing away the throbbing ache settling behind his lid.

There's an inflatable mattress there, already bloated with air. It's a nice one, he notes; better than the thin one he bought Alexis to take camping. The blue vinyl material is peeking out from a corner that's not been covered by the flat white sheet thrown over the rest of its surface.

"Undress him."

_That's_ not how it goes in the book.

Though, yes, Nikki and Rook had sparks, and sexual attraction was the initial, most prominent reason for their first coupling, he was also proud of the romance he had penned between them.

Kate's fingers are tangling in the plackets of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons at his chest.

"I didn't write it like this." He stills her hands and she uncoils her fingers, flattens them at his ribs. He can feel her concerned stare boring into him, her nails curling into his sides.

"Mr. Castle, you invite your readers to use their imagination. This is what_ I _imagine happens off the page."

"They're_ my _characters," he barks.

"Today they're mine." His voice is even, sure, and is maybe more startling than his outbursts. "Keep going," he directs to Kate. "Skip to the pants."

Castle can feel his stomach muscles ripple when her fingers slide beneath the tails of his shirt and pry at his belt buckle. Her forehead falls forward onto his shoulder as she works her hands between the parted leather and pops the button of his jeans.

No, no, no.

His body is responding to her, against his will. She's crowded into him, shielding him from Warden, but what will preserve his modesty from _her_? She's fingering the waistband of his boxers, dipping the tips just beneath the elastic, then withdrawing back to the denim.

"Stop stalling. Take them off _now_," Warden stresses.

Castle's quick breaths are rattling his chest, and he's horrified that he's allowed himself to become aroused right now. Kate shucks the material down his legs and he wants to cover back up immediately. He's thankful he still has his shirt on because, even half unbuttoned, it provides the concealment he needs right now.

"Sit on the mattress. Both of you."

Kate lowers down gracefully, leaves her legs shifted off the side. She's looking up at him in expectation; he steps nearly over her, slides to the far end of the mattress. He leans against the cold wall, bends his legs to his chest, and wraps his arms around them.

Warden clears his throat, lowers his voice. "Now," he pauses dramatically, and Castle doesn't quite know what's coming, but he knows it can't be good. "Take him into your mouth."

"Kate, no. No!" He holds a hand out, to keep her at bay. "Don't, don't."

He's already painfully erect, which makes him feel as sick and twisted as the man directing them from across the room. Her eyes are closed as she shifts and crawls across the mattress. She pushes at his bent legs to slide between his feet, forearms on his knees. When she opens her eyes, they're glassy. Her teeth have ahold of her bottom lip; worry and fear cloud her features, making him want to cry for her, with her.

_I'm so sorry_, he mouths, and she shakes her head, trying to absolve him of his guilt.

"It's okay."

_Nothing_ about this is okay.

"Would you rather _I_ demonstrate what I think Rook does to Nikki? Mr. Castle, if you need a breather, you could sit that one out—just observe."

He feels Kate shutter in response and he wraps an arm around her neck in some sort of vain attempt at protecting her, shielding her from this psychopath. The thought of any man besides himself touching her is abhorrent, but this man, against her will… He would die before he'd let that happen.

Her thoughts must be in a similar place, because her palm is on his chest, urging him to lean back. He's curled in on himself now, doesn't want her to see the evidence of his body's betrayal. "Let me do this, Castle," she whispers. "Please." She presses down on his thighs until his legs are straight on either side of her. "Try to pretend he's not here. Just you and me."

God, that doesn't help. The image of them doing this, alone and willingly, makes him twitch in misguided anticipation.

Her fingertips are back at the sides of his boxers and she begins to draw them down, but he slams his thighs down, not letting her work at them. Her expression is protesting, but he doesn't let up. He can't let her go through with this.

But, her insistent hands are pulling until he's freed from the confines of his boxers, shamefully aroused, and he's not sure how he'll ever face her again after this.

He closes his eyes, has to gather enough composure to-

Her lips barely brush against the tip of his erection, and he's hissing and forcing his hips into the stiff rubber of the mattress to keep them from bucking up. She whimpers and his brain can't even process the enveloping warmth of her strong exhale before her cool tongue flattens against the underside of him.

Opening his eyes, he watches her, which is a massive mistake. Seeing her mouth stretch to work over him gently, slowly, is making his head spin. And she looks up, meets his gaze, and he thinks he sees the same strange hooded arousal that he's feeling reflected back at him.

He tries to choke back a groan, but it stumbles out as a grunt, and he closes his eyes as a shield against the overwhelming onslaught of stimulation. Blindly, he reaches for her cheek, and she hums, the vibration trembling at his palm and against his still-swelling flesh.

Both of her hands are on his thighs, but she moves them then; one follows her lips, the other takes his from her face, laces their fingers together. She squeezes his digits and lowers further, advancing him into the tight cavern of her mouth.

He's crushing her hand in his own, he knows, a warning of how her quickening ministrations are affecting him.

"Do you like what she's doing to you?"

He's jolted out of his reverie, his bubble of pleasure, by Warden's voice. Kate stops her rhythmic movements, but leaves her lips on him, not knowing what direction they're going to be taken.

He doesn't respond. No matter what he says, it'll be a lie. Yes, God yes, he likes what she's doing to him, how she makes every nerve ending in his body feel alive, too alive. But, he detests the circumstances, the voyeur taunting them from across the room, the fact that this isn't truly consensual.

"It's rude to not give constructive criticism, Mr. Castle."

Kate raises her head, pulls off of him; the burning loss of contact causes his hips to shift. In an attempt to sooth her, he slides his free hand to her back, rubs there gently. Her breathing is nearly under control, feels steady beneath his palm, but her lungs continue sucking air in deeply.

"Did he finish?" Warden asks from across the room, where he's propped in the chair Kate was seated in earlier.

She moves to lower her head again, but Castle pulls their joined hands to her shoulder and shoves lightly, keeping her backed away. He eyes the masked man; from the angle that he's seated and the distance away he is, there's no way he can really know…

"Yes," Castle chokes out, answers for her.

"Castle—"

He knows she's worried about getting caught in the lie. He has very obviously not climaxed, but he's close and he's not doing that to her.

"That is the utmost compliment of your skills, Miss Beckett. Making a man come."

Castle elevates out of his reclining position, shifts to shimmy his boxers up to his waist, tugs to lengthen his shirt. Kate is still in front of him, blocking off any view that would tip off their falsehood. His forearm drops to his lap, and they should be out of the woods for now.

"Come here, Katherine," the psycho demands, a touch of sweetness to his voice.

"No," Castle replies, defiantly. He holds Kate to his chest, arm around her shoulders. Her body is trembling; nerves and exertion, and likely panic and dread, are all pumping adrenaline through her veins.

"I just want to give her a prize for her accomplishment." He digs back into his bag and pulls out a large bottle of water. Castle licks his lips, the extent of his parched throat making itself known again. If his mouth is this dry, tongue rough and sticky, then Kate's...

"I'm so thirsty," she pleads, inching away from him, but hesitating.

"It's not safe," Castle warns.

"It's still sealed," Warden says, flipping the bottle around in his hands, condensation dripping from the plastic to the floor. "There's no catch," he promises with a smile. "Just pure refreshment."

Kate gets up, crawls from the mattress with shaky legs, and reaches an arm out. She's still closer to Castle than the psychopath. Warden holds his ground, swings the bottle enticingly, and Kate takes a few tentative steps forward. Castle sighs in relief when the water touches her palm, lets his head knock into the brick behind him. But his relief quickly morphs into horror as Warden locks an arm around Kate's neck, jerks her back to his chest, and sticks a blade to the delicate skin below her chin.

Castle shuffles to his knees, poised to jump to his feet, but he sees the knife dig deeper at his sudden movements. He holds still, feels completely helpless, wants to murder this man, use his own knife to mutilate him.

"Tsk, tsk," he hums, disappointedly. "You should not have lied. _Rule number one_: No lying," he explains, plainly. He moves the blade to Kate's lips, digs the tip just inside of her mouth. "_Rule number two_: Always _come_ when given the opportunity."


	4. Chapter 4

**Peronal A/N: Thanks for the prayers regarding my pregnancy. Things are looking better. :-) If you could also pray for my mom and her Cardiology appointment this week, I'd be appreciative. You guys are great.**

**Story A/N: Reminder that this is AU set sometime after "Undead Again", but "Always" never happened.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**00000000000000000000**

Kate is holding her breath. Castle can tell. Her eyes are wide and fearful and there's nothing he can do, doesn't want to make any sudden moves. Castle inches to his feet so so slowly, keeps his palms in the air so Warden knows he's not trying to be a threat. "Just…don't do anything to her. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't have lied," the man says, twisting the knife between Kate's upper lip and her teeth. Kate's eyes squeeze shut and Castle sees a lone drop of blood sliding down the silver of the blade, where it's stopped by Warden's knuckle.

"I know," he breathes. "You're right. You're so right. I shouldn't have lied. I should have known that you were smart enough to figure it out." Castle's guts twist at the apologies and compliments he's giving the man, but he'll do anything to keep him from spilling more of Kate's blood.

"People say _I'm_ crazy," Warden muses into Kate's hair. "Mr. Castle had these lovely lips wrapped around his cock and he wouldn't let you finish him off. You should be offended by that. Are you offended by that?"

Castle can tell Kate doesn't know what to respond with, how to even respond. She has a damn knife in her mouth. Castle just wants to curl up and cover his eyes, cry, give up. This man is psychotic and there's no way any of this is going to end well. Castle is the one Kate depends on to find the silver lining, but he's got nothing once again.

Kate shakes her head, a barely visible movement, were it not for the swing of her hair. He can see her take a deep breath through her nose, so needed that her chest shutters with it.

"You're not offended?" Warden clucks his tongue in surprise and stretches his neck back to look at her face. "Maybe you're both a lost cause, after all."

It sounds like Warden might be giving up on them, on whatever plan he was confident enough in to make him kidnap them and lock them in a basement, while he uses them as his own personal marionettes. Castle doesn't know whether he should be relieved or if that just means that they're not needed anymore. He doesn't want to think about what happens then.

Warden shoves on Kate's back and she goes flying into Castle. He's not expecting it and for a moment the wind is knocked from him, but he manages to get his arms out before she tucks herself into him. Her hands are at his cheeks and she's touching his face everywhere, scrutinizing him as if he were the one injured.

"Hey, hey," he grabs her wrists in one of his hands and brings them to his chest. He rests his other at her chin, eyes her lip, wants to press his own mouth to it, to calm her, reassure her that he's here, that he's sorry, and from here on out he'll do absolutely anything to keep her safe. "Are you okay?"

He peers over her shoulder to Warden, who has already put away his knife and his rummaging through the bags and boxes on the table, shoving things in his pockets. He meets Castle's gaze, and Castle immediately averts his eyes back to Kate. The calculating coldness he sees in Warden's mischievous stare makes his skin crawl. Eyes and a smile, no other expressions discernible through the mask he wears—it's creepy and sinister and Castle can't help but wonder if the man has even an inkling as to his own monstrosity.

"I'm alright," Kate claims, but she's still shaking with fear or adrenaline, or both. He pulls her closer, until he's wrapped around her, palms soothing strokes down her back.

"Isn't that darling?" Warden is watching them with a tilt of his head and gleaming grin.

Castle twists Kate out of his arms and gathers her behind him. He feels foolish, prepared to plead for her safety, fight if needed, in nothing but his boxers. But there's not a thing about this situation that's conventional or comfortable.

"For the record, Mr. Castle, I accept your apology. Perhaps I wasn't completely clear on the rules. My bad." He thuds himself in the head with the heel of his hand in a gesture of foolishness. "But, now that we're all clear, I'm sure we won't be having anymore misunderstandings. Correct?"

"What are you going to do now?"

"Hmm, I didn't hear an answer there. But, that's okay. You've got a little while to prepare yourself for your second chance. I have to go out."

Castle's ears perk up at that and Kate's strong squeeze around his bicep shows that she's seeing the opportunity here, also. He nods, doesn't question, as Warden jingles his keys.

He serves up some parting words as he exits through the basement door. "I wouldn't try anything silly while I'm gone. You'll want to save your energy."

**00000000000000000000**

"Nothing." Castle huffs out in exhausted frustration as he slams his shoulder one last time into the door. It's wood, but the sizzling pain edging up his arm tells him that it has an even more solid core.

"Me neither," Kate sighs. She's fished through the room, over, under everything, shuffled through all of Warden's supplies. "Except there's more water. And some trail mix." She seems a little more excited than she'd like, but she is quickly opening the bag and tossing a handful of the fruit and nuts in her mouth, then grabbing his palm to shake some out for him, too.

"Thanks." He's mumbling around the mouthful while she twists open the cap on the water and holds it out for him to swig. He nods his head for her to go first and she complies. He picks a few of the cashews out of the bag and pitches them too in his mouth, but nearly spits them out in a hiss when she presses the cool water bottle to his bare stomach.

"Sorry." She winces and tries to help by swiping at the condensation left behind, but he grabs her wrist with a _'That's okay.'_ because she _so_ isn't helping anything.

He stalks across the room and plunges his legs into his pants, hopping a little to get them to the curve of his waist before fastening them and his belt. His shirt goes on just as hastily, his fingers trembling as the buttons slide back into place and he stuffs the tails messily into his pants.

"What's wrong?" She's at his back, her palms warm against his shoulder blades through the worn fabric of his shirt.

"Seriously?" He doesn't turn around. He's going crazy and doesn't want to take it out on her, but he can't help it. He's claustrophobic with his want for her and it makes him feel wrong, pathetic, dangerous. "When he gets back…" he trails off, shakes his head before he begins again. "You know what comes next, Beckett."

_Warden's take on Page 105._

"I do."

"I'm so sorry, Kate." He folds his hands around his face and takes a stuttering breath, needs to figure out how he's going to go through with this, or get them out of it. His attempts at chivalry haven't been successful thus far and he feels like a failure. He moves to the edge of the air mattress, drops dejectedly beside it onto the cold floor, his back propped against the starched sheet that's draped over its side.

"Hey." She crouches at his feet, lays her palms on his knees. He won't look at her. Can't. She's going to hate him, whether she thinks so or not; she will, he knows.

"You know," he starts, stops, weighs his words. A deep, burdensome breath lifts his chest. It hurts, hurts to suck in the air; he can feel his heart thudding, slowing him down, filling him up, choking him. "I always hoped we'd do this one day," he admits reluctantly. "But not like this. Not like this." He doesn't know what makes him admit this to her, especially now. He tucks his chin to his chest in shame, shame at even thinking about this, about letting her know how much he wants to make love to her. She shouldn't have to carry that burden right now.

"I think about it too. A lot, recently." He raises his head, looks at her then. Her skin is flushed, breathing a little quickened, and she's smiling, a smile that's shrouding pain and fear, but has some genuineness too. "Maybe we were close, huh?"

"Were we?"

"We were." She nods, leaning over his legs to brush her mouth against his. It's light, gentle, experimental—just a slight press. "I want it on my terms, our terms," she whispers at his lips.

"Want what?" His brain isn't working properly; he can't keep up. He thumbs her lip, brushes across the cut there.

"You. When you make love to me." His breath catches and he's not sure if it's at her words or because her fingers are touching the buttons on his shirt, no move to loosen them, just a press; her thumb taps each one as she trails down the line to where they disappear at his belt. "Let's do it now."

"Kate—"

"It needs to be just us. I don't know what's going to happen after today, Castle, what he's going to do to us."

"He's not going to—"

"It's very possible that he is."

"I won't let him hurt you again," he growls, jerks her up and over his knees. His mouth finds hers, and she falls into the kiss immediately, sucks at his lips, licks into his mouth. She moans unintelligible words around his tongue, fists her hands into his hair, the tug and pull more pleasure than pain. "Shh. Slow down," he pants, the taste of copper at her lip bringing him back to the reality of this. She's ignoring him, sliding her body up his thighs, knees at his hips, and he's so damn hard again already.

They're in a cold, isolated dungeon of a room, a psychopath trying to tap into their lives, control them like characters on a page, and _nothing_ should be able to get him aroused right now. But, Kate, God, Kate—her hands are finally taking care of the buttons that she toyed with earlier, popping them one by one. He can't think straight. Her wet mouth is trailing fire down his chest. "Are we doing this, Castle?" Her hand skims across his belt and lower, pressing the heel of her hand to his zipper. "First time. Our terms," she repeats.

He bucks into her palm and her fingers curl into the denim, pulsing pressure there. His eyes don't leave hers. She's waiting on his response; the answer pressing insistently into her hand not yet enough. Nodding, he reaches his belt buckle, deftly opens the leather; he brushes her fingers as he unfastens his jeans, tangles with the impatient digits at his zipper.

He flattens a hand to the icy concrete beneath him and lifts up enough to help her pull the fabric down his legs. He hisses when he touches down, the cold seeping through his boxers.

He sheds his shirt as he shuffles back onto the air mattress and she follows him, shucking her own pants and panties as she crawls up his legs until her knees flank his hips. She finds him through the slit in his boxers, throbbing and ready, too eager against her experimental fingers.

"You can't keep doing that," he explains, cursing himself as her nimble hands leave him. "You feel too good."

"That's the point," she teases as she unbuttons her own shirt, eyes never leaving his lap. He wasn't sure he could get more ready, he's so tight and wound and hard for her. But when she shrugs her blouse off and in the same motion her bra falls from her shoulders, he feels himself twitch painfully, his biology impatient.

"You're gorgeous." He feels this strange feeling of guilt as he reaches out and touches between her breasts, skirts his fingers along the puckered skin. She doesn't appear shocked that his attention is drawn there, but after a few short seconds, she reaches up and moves his hand to cup her breast, closes her eyes when he takes over the movement himself.

This is wrong and so right at the same time, but the conflicting emotions aren't enough to keep him from leaning forward and replacing his wandering fingers with his mouth, rolling his tongue against a tightened nipple.

Before he can figure out where to offer his attention to next, she takes the decision from him, rolling off his lap. His breath hitches, knew it was too good to be true, that this was a selfish choice, agreeing to take her body under these circumstances. She's changed her mind.

Or maybe she hasn't.

She hasn't left him; she's only rolled to the side of him, naked and laid out on the mattress. She beckons him with her eyes and two tugging fingers curled into the waistband of his boxers.

He's completely nude and on top of her before he knows it. His mouth is at her neck, measuring her rapid pulse with his tongue. His hand is crawling down her body, ribs to hip, then inside her thigh, where she stops him. "Just you," she breathes. "Now."

He want to say no, tell her he's doing this right, but his body's urges suppress his brain's romanticism and he shifts and pushes into her. She grunts in surprise, then claws at the small of his back and lower, holding him to her.

These embarrassing sounds are gurgling from his throat, but he can't think coherently, let alone verbalize how amazing she feels wrapped around him, gripping him everywhere that they touch. He wants to be smooth, suave, make this great for her, but he's emotional blubbering mess. He wants to chant his love for her over and over again, but a sharp stab of hurt reminds him that she already knows how he feels, kept it a secret for her own reasons. He's coming to terms with that, and it helps that she told him her wall is coming down. And that she wants him there for it. That does mean that he's got a good chance to have a larger part in her life, right?

"You're thinking too much," she whispers, as she swipes at the hair slung across his forehead, then scrapes both sets of nails along his scalp. It makes him shiver. "Just think about how it feels. God, Castle, it feels so good," she says as their hips slither against one another.

He wants this to last, God he wants nothing more than that, but he's never had anything feel this good, never been so attached to a moment, so many emotions coursing through his veins. He's pumping into her quickly, too quickly. Her breath is hot and wet at his shoulder, where she's lifted herself up to tuck her face into his skin.

"Rick—"

His name, the way she moans it, almost sends him over the edge. Wanting her there before him is the only thing keeping him from falling.

"Castle—"

She's sobbing now, desperate, choking whimpers.

"Do you want me to stop?" His hips sink into hers, and he stills within her, body shaking in protest of the lack of movement.

"Why-why would I want you to stop?" Her teeth are at his jaw, the long line of her neck stretching to gulp air as she licks at his skin. She shifts impatiently beneath him, flexing her thighs, and hooking her ankles at his calves.

"I don't know. I don't know," he murmurs. "You deserve better than this." Tears are pricking at his eyes as slaps his palms to the mattress to ease off of her, but she pulls him back, tightens around him on his deep slide back in. His eyes screw shut in a long blink, and he can't halt the moan that escapes from his throat.

"No one makes me feel the way you do." She drops her head until their eyes meet. She's arching and rocking into him and she's so slick around him; he can't wrap his mind around it, how wet she is, the undulating eagerness of her body beneath him. "Please don't stop."

He doesn't.

He feels her fluttering around him, a faint tightening that he drives through. He heeds her body's warning and slows down to deep, methodical thrusts. Her eyes widen and her teeth latch onto her lip when he grips her hips in his palms and slides her down the mattress. The angle surprises even him, the way with which his hips crowd even further into hers, and it's his own groan that releases. But her light flutterings turn into intense contractions and she grips his head and shoulders as she pants out her release. He lends her his mouth, muffles her cries with his tongue as he spills into her.

If he can't breathe, he knows she can't, with his boneless weight pressing her into the air mattress beneath them. But, each time he inches up, her elbows, criss-crossed around his neck, tug him back down. "Stop it," she hums at his ear. "Just stay for a moment."

"Yeah. 'Kay." He shifts the little bit that she'll allow, so at least some of his weight hits his forearms and knees as he allows his shaking muscles to relax. But his mind is racing, competing with the loud, raging noise in his ears, triggered by the intense pleasure he just experienced. He waits for the feelings to ebb away, for his heart to stop its erratic thumping. Part of him thinks it never will.

He knows he'll never be the same.

_They'll_ never be the same.


End file.
